England is freezing. In fact, it’s exactly like the weather I left in Michigan. It’s difficult to get about in the ancient market town of Hereford, as the wind cuts through my light jacket, and easily penetrates my three thick sweaters. (March usually registers in the high 50s; this brutal cold is unusual and caught me unprepared.) My home, set on a hilltop overlooking the Welsh Black Mountains, is blanketed in white. Monday my brother and I conducted a ceremonial scattering of our family’s ashes in the forest behind the cottage amid two inches of snow, where legions of daffodils wait hopefully for just one decent spring day so they can unfold into gold.
Tuesday afternoon I decided to re-explore one of my favorite places- Hereford’s magnificent eleventh century cathedral. I love its history and architecture, as well as the charming gift shop, set among 16th century tombs in the walls, and under the stone floor. I hadn’t visited it since the end of May, 2010. There would be new delights in there.
I made my way through the cathedral’s enormous entry doors-- and was stopped in my tracks by music so lovely it brought tears to my eyes. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe. Rooted to the spot I closed my eyes and let its beauty wash over me. Someone was singing, accompanied by a violinist and a small orchestra. But this sound was different- certainly not a boy chorister rehearsing a solo for Easter Sunday services. I was hearing an aria- ‘Erbarme dich, mein Gott, um meiner Zahren willen!’ (‘Have mercy, my Lord, behold my bitter tears!’) from Bach’s St. Matthew Passion, sung with full, rich alto tones, and radiating an ineffable sadness. The glorious music echoed throughout the church. I remained behind a massive pillar, lost in awe.
Two minutes later the sound ceased. Oh, No! I’d happened upon the end of a rehearsal.
I peered around the pillar. A good distance away a tall, athletic-looking young man- perhaps late twenties- was standing just below the high altar chatting with the conductor about some musical point. He was dressed in comfy cords and a warm sweater, and possessed thick, wavy dark hair worn just a bit long, which suited him perfectly. He was that rare thing- a counter tenor. Wikipedia defines it this way: (It’s a)…’type of classical male singing voice whose vocal range is equivalent to that of a contralto or mezzo-soprano voice type. A pre-pubescent male who has this ability is called a treble.’
It’s a notoriously difficult sound to get right; there seems always to be a place or two that causes the voice to ‘break,’ or go out of falsetto. To position-and hold- the vocal cords exactly where they must be is an exasperating art. This man seemed undaunted by the usual counter tenor haunts. He was, in two words- magnificently oblivious- to the vocal danger, or so it seemed to me. There was no hesitation, no delicately careful placement, just a rich, warm power, and seemingly effortless control.
He was a natural.
I’ve heard these rare and special singers a few times. (One sang a carefully delivered solo in Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana in the ‘80s to an appreciative audience.)
But this voice was solid and strong. And Oh, his range! Every note was perfectly placed; his breath control was astonishing. The ease with which he moved around vocally, amazed me. He sang with great feeling! Clearly his talent was a source of joy for him.
(His name- discovered when I was given the evening program notes- was William Towers. He’d read English at Cambridge University before entering the Royal College of Music. Wouldn’t it have been marvelous to be a mouse-in-pocket when the Admittance Committee heard him audition?!)
He chatted briefly with the conductor, then donned a warm coat and scarf and walked briskly down the side aisle of the Cathedral, still quietly rehearsing phrases. I couldn’t help myself; I ran after him as fast as I dared, finally caught up, and touched his sleeve. He turned, surprised.
(Idiot! You’re bothering him! What will you say?) But there was no annoyance; he only looked startled, then curious.
I stared at up him, speechless with admiration. He had perfect English skin, was incredibly handsome, and his glorious hair was a dark halo.
Finally, I managed to blurt, “I have never heard anything so beautiful.” (I wanted to say heard and seen, but didn’t dare. Though it would have been the simple truth.)
His sudden grin showed me he was pleased with the compliment; I relaxed slightly.
“Well, thanks very much!”
I stammered on. “You’re a counter tenor, aren’t you? The best I ever heard.”
He grinned again. “ Yes, I am. And thanks again! Do come to the concert. It’s tonight, you know.”
I nodded, still word-poor, and groaned inwardly. But, taking pity on me, he offered another radiant smile; we cheerily wished each other a good day, and he left the building.
Tongue-tied, are we, you silly old twit? I muttered, at once amused and embarrassed by my codfish-like gaping. But good heavens, he was a stunner. And gracious, to boot.
I dashed into the Cathedral Gift Shop and bought a ticket. I wouldn’t miss this evening for anything.
“Get here at 6:15 for a decent seat; the cathedral will be packed,” commented the clerk. “The concert begins at 7.”
Winter concerts test one’s endurance; these giant stone and granite cathedrals are notoriously cold in weather like this. I’d attended many events here over the years, and had always left numb. Tonight I’d sneak a pillow out of my hotel room, as the benches are rock-hard. The concert would last over three hours, including a twenty-minute intermission to allow singers, orchestra and audience to huddle next to huge, jet-black heaters shaped like giant boilers. These thaw-machines, scattered around the cathedral, have long, vertical metal fins to direct and radiate heat.
And that’s exactly how things unfolded. I came promptly at 6:15, staked out my seat, and settled in. At intermission we were like penguins in the deep Arctic winter; an inner circle would snuggle up to a monster-sized heater and toast for a minute; then they’d rotate toward the back so the people behind them could move close and toast…and so on, until the warning bell.
During the concert the lady next to me shared her generous, thickly fleeced lap rug, which kept my legs and torso more comfortable. My feet, clad in thick socks, still froze.
But nobody complained. The evening was magical; singers, instrumentalists and the cathedral’s choristers- thirteen boys ages 7 to 14- gave flawless performances. The soprano, tenor and bass soloists were outstanding.
For me, though, William Towers was the Zenith. Just hearing that one solo again was worth the trip to England. The same lovely, slim violinist stood up and moved with the melody as she played for him, backed by the little orchestra. The two of them were lost in Bach’s luminous music. What a supreme moment.
I left at 10:45. Fortunately, my 11th century hotel was just across the street from the cathedral grounds. Numb, I hobbled, exhausted and exhilarated, into my room. It would be impossible to sleep till I thawed my feet. Shedding shoes and socks I sat on the edge of the enormous old bathtub and, still bundled up, turned the faucet to ‘hot’ and showered- no, pummeled- the poor things with warmth till they regained consciousness. It took ages.
The whole time, though, I smiled.